proved him not too much off the hinge. He read a great deal, and
very serious books; works about the origin of things--of man, of
institutions, of speech, of religion. This habit he had taken up more
particularly since the circle of his social life had contracted. He sat
there alone, turning his pages softly, contentedly, with the lamplight
shining on his refined old head and embroidered dressing-gown. He had
used of old to be out every night in the week--Gaston was perfectly
aware that to many dull people he must even have appeared a little
frivolous. He was essentially a social creature and indeed--except
perhaps poor Jane in her damp old castle in Brittany--they were all
social creatures. That was doubtless part of the reason why the family
had acclimatised itself in France. They had affinities with a society
of conversation; they liked general talk and old high salons, slightly
tarnished and dim, containing precious relics, where winged words flew
about through a circle round the fire and some clever person, before the
chimney-piece, held or challenged the others. That figure, Gaston knew,
especially in the days before he could see for himself, had very often
been his father, the lightest and most amiable specimen of the type that
enjoyed easy possession of the hearth-rug. People left it to him; he was
so transparent, like a glass screen, and he never triumphed in debate.
His word on most subjects was not felt to be the last (it was usually
not more conclusive than a shrugging inarticulate resignation, an "Ah
you know, what will you have?"); but he had been none the less a part
of the very prestige of some dozen good houses, most of them over
the river, in the conservative faubourg, and several to-day profaned
shrines, cold and desolate hearths. These had made up Mr. Probert's
pleasant world--a world not too small for him and yet not too large,
though some of them supposed themselves great institutions. Gaston knew
the succession of events that had helped to make a difference, the most
salient of which were the death of his brother, the death of his mother,
and above all perhaps the demise of Mme. de Marignac, to whom the
old boy used still to go three or four evenings out of the seven and
sometimes even in the morning besides. Gaston fully measured the place
she had held in his father's life and affection, and the terms on
which they had grown up together--her people had been friends of his
grandfather when that fin